Some Things That I Have Done That Are Not An Accurate Reflection Of My Character

GRUMPY OUT OF CHARACTER

On the weekend, at a crowded street festival, I did yet another thing completely out of character. A guy was walking along just in front of me. He briefly looked at his little son walking just behind, and put out his hand in a clear indication that he expected the little boy to take his hand. He looked up and ahead again and did not see that the boy was still walking along but had not seen his father's hand. He was interested in other things. So I put my own hand out and this complete stranger and I walked along holding hands.

We made it a lot further along without the guy realising than I thought we would. Somewhere between 30 seconds and a minute, the guy actually gently squeezed my hand, a sign of fatherly affection. What was going on here? Did the little boy have exceptionally large hands? Were mine much smaller and child-like than I realised.

Needless to say that by the time the guy turned to look at where his son's face should be, then quickly up an my own face, I was just about pissing myself with silent laughter. Making eye contact, I lost my shit entirely.

“I don't believe you actually did that,” The Dreaded One told me in what would normally be admonishment but this time was a kind of dumbfounded amusement.

Completely out of character, and yet somehow strangely familiar.

Like the time at the self-checkout at the supermarket when we'd finished scanning all the things with barcodes and I grabbed a potato and tried to scan it. Again and again, with more frustration each time. I looked over my shoulder at the helper and shrugged and made a face, like what's the deal with this potato? Is it broken or something?

“Please don't make him come over,” The Dreaded One said, eyes closed, slight shake of the head.

“Awesome,” I replied. “He's coming over."

In pure Apu from The Quickie Mart, the man asked, “Excuse me sir but is there a problem?”

Somehow, I dead-panned it. Still scanning the potato I told him, “This potato. It won't scan. Everything else went through fine but the potato? Not happening.”

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. "See? Nothing."

“Sir, it is not necessary or indeed possible to scan the potato. With the potato, you simply...”

He explained the procedure for dealing with potatoes in a very professional manner which carried just the hint of amusement, like he knew damn well he was dealing with a smart-arse rather than a moron. I was barely holding it together. The Dreaded One was smirking and shaking her head silently. A couple at the next register was giggling.

Again, so out of character.

Like the time my publisher boss asked me (an editor at the time) to join him in a meeting with the designers. One the way to the meeting, he got called to the phone. In the meeting room were the designers with the only available chair being the one at the head of the table with my boss' things spread out. I paused, then sat down in this chair. The meeting hadn't really stopped, it just carried along sounding very meetingy.

When my boss entered the room I remember thinking that a normal person would apologise, stand up and give their boss their chair back. But suddenly I wanted to see what would happen if I just ignored the guy. I stayed seated, resisting the urge to fiddle idly with his things, but considering it. The meeting kept rolling along. My boss cleared his throat, hovered for a bit, then left the room. I imagine he told others what had happened and how he just didn't understand why I would do such a thing. I can also imagine what their reaction would have been.

Again, it's just not the kind of thing I do.

Or the time I scored the DJ spot for me and The Dreaded One, long before we had a clue about mixing. At a party, as a joke, a friend told a promoter on the lookout for new DJ names that we could DJ. The promoter approached us.

“Someone told me you guys can mix.”

“We are awesome mixers,” I replied with confidence.

“Really? That is what I heard.”

“Love mixing. Nothing like it. It's my favourite thing, mixing.” I cocked my head to the side so that my right ear was resting on my right shoulder, then I did a really tight mix on my air decks.

The Dreaded One was looking at me like she didn't know who I was.

“Would you like to play at my next party?”

“That would be fantastic. We'd love to.”

“So I should book it in then?”

“Book us in. Thank you. Thank you so much.

As the promoter walked away, the Dreaded One looked at me and said, “What did you just get us into?”

What I got us into was a very steep learning curve, and a pretty satisfying first DJ gig.

But yet again, this simply is not the kind of thing someone like me does. Just ask me – I should know.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He is a man of characters.

Another Two Shadows

Two Shadows  
On the road,
Two friends,
One love,
One sunny afternoon.

Grumpy & The Num Num Plumber

GRUMPY NUM NUM

The Dreaded One and I have moved into our new home after two months of travel and one month of couch surfing. It's wonderful to be surrounded by our things again. After doing our condition report on the state of the apartment, we booked a plumber to come in and sort out a couple of problems with two taps.

The Dreaded One took the call from the plumber. He asked when we could be home to meet him. I said I could be home at 3pm any day of the week. He said the traffic is too bad at that time of the day and that he could only make it at 10 o'clock, just for a quick inspection to find out what parts would be need to fix the problems.

“AM or PM?” The Dreaded One asked. It was PM. Not ideal... in fact pretty damned odd, in hindsight, but if that's what it took to get the job done, so be it.

10 O'clock the following night, the intercom buzzes. A little guy who sounds very much like the Peter Sellers character in The Party (birdie num-num) asks if The Dreaded One is here. “No she isn't,” I reply and wait for him to introduce himself.

And this is where the relationship goes into its downward spiral.

Peter Sellers clears his throat and announces with a grand flourish in his tone, “I am here to inspect the building.”

I stare at the image of the guy on the little screen. He doesn't look like he's getting into the bemused silence I'm sending to him.

“You're what?” I finally say.

“I am here to inspect the building,” he num nums grandly again.

No introduction. No mention of which company he is from. Suddenly I do not like him one little bit.

“You mean you are here to look at the taps.”

“Yes, that is correct, num num.”

I buzz him in. When I open the door to my apartment, he marches right on in, straight past the first bathroom towards the living area, a man with purpose.

“Excuse me – where do you think you are going?”

“Where is the birdie num num bathroom?”

“It's here. You just walked right past it.”

The tap has a rod that you pull out to switch the water flow from the bathtub to the shower, with the problem being that the pressure has to be permanently high or the water cuts from the shower back to the tap, thus wasting too much water. Peter Sellers does not seem to need to bother himself with such details. He drops to his knees, turns the tap on high and tugs at the switch. Water gushes first from the tap, then from the shower, then from the tap, then from the shower. The man is pretty wet pretty quickly. I fold my arms and shake my head as I watch.

“Erm...” he says eventually. “Can you please show me how to operate this device.?”

“You must be joking. You don't know how to work the tap? I'm absolutely not going to show a plumber how to turn a tap on.”

“But I just need you to tell me how the device is -”

“What kind of plumber doesn't know -”

“But I am not the birdie num num plumber. I am just a contractor, and if you would be so kind as to show me how to operate the device...”

“It just gets better and better... if you can't even figure out how to work the tap, how are you going to tell the plumber what the problem is?”

A drop of water quivers on the end of his nose as he num nums a bit more, but I silence him and tell him to come through to the kitchen to look at the other tap. This one simply wobbles about when you turn it on and off. My hopes are not high.

Again, Peter Sellers looks like such minor details are insignificant trivia best to be avoided. He grips the tap like he's choking a spitting cobra that is about to attack him. I have no idea what he hopes to achieve.

“It moves back and forth,” he informs me.

“Yes. It moves back and forth. It is not supposed to move back and forth.”

“Are you quite sure it is not supposed to move back and forth?”

I take him into the second bathroom adjacent to the kitchen where the taps are the same design. “These are the same taps. They do not move back and forth.”

He lunges for the spout with both hands and with some effort forces the tap from side to side.

“But it moves back and forth if you do this.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you think... why do you... why... why... I think you'd better go now. I'm getting reeeally cranky and I don't like getting cranky this late at night.”

On the way past the first bathroom he num nums up again, telling me that in his considered opinion the entire tap unit needs to be replaced because he believes the problem is with the washer, yes indeed it is the washer. I slam the door behind him.

I still have a pressure problem and a tap that moves back and forth.

And no idea when Num Numpty The Plumber is going to return.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). If you don't know what all this birdie num num stuff was about, hire a copy of Peter Sellers' classic comedy The Party. It's funnier than a plumber who can't turn a tap on.

50 Shades Of Thorpe

Ian Thorpe, can you possibly be any more pathetically self-absorbed? There are people with real problems and you whine about your pseudo alcohol problems and your depression and your... oh really. Please. Just shut up. I'm sure your poorly written book will do well, just like 50 Shades has done well.

Because the masses know awesome, don't they. And your book is awesome.

Awesome!

Missing Betty Boop

Missing Betty Boop

I missed you today, Betty Boop.

I miss your darkness

Spilling into the light,

I miss the glimpses of light

In your darkness,

I miss the conversations

That gave birth to Rueben Jane

(Who you never got to know),

I miss our times together,

The shared confessions

And the feeling that maybe it will be all right.

I miss that day in the park -

Do you remember that day?

That perfect day

When we stole a stranger's laughter?

I missed you today, Betty Boop.

Nude Grumpy

New Grumpy column up on Tsunami Mag (in case you missed it). It contains nudity, which might be why The Big Issue said it was not suitable for them. Or maybe it's just not funny. I think it's funny. I didn't think it was funny at the time (yes, it's a true story, like all of my Grumpies)... okay, I thought it was a little bit funny at the time. In a caught-with-your-pants-completely-off kind of way. It was squirmy funny. It was oh-fuck-this-is-so-not-funny funny. It was funny-if-it-happened-to-someone-else funny.

But still not appropriate for The Big Issue. I think that mag wants funny but with something a little heart-warming or life-affirming at its core, which is good because I like that stuff. So it's back to the drawing board.

Cue thinking music...

(Am in a much better frame of mind when I posted this link a couple of posts ago. Things are turning).

Happy People

I like this guy. He sits on our dash and keeps us company on our road trips. This shot was taken on the way back from the Regrowth Festival 2012 near Braidwood just a couple of weeks ago. Wonderful festival and gathering of friends.

Some photos are here. There was so much happiness flying about that I neglected to take more photos. Many good people here. Wish I'd captured all of my friends who were there... alas. And wish one or two people who are on the other side of the world could have been there. Again, alas.

Am aching like a bitch after moving furniture and stuff into our new home in Collingwood. Must sleep. Have a stressful lunch meeting tomorrow.

Nighty night.

Naked Grumpy

Here is my latest Grumpy column for Tsunami. Bit of a woopsie in that I offered an edited version to another mag and now I have to tell them they can't have it. Oh well, will just have to come up with something else.

Not writing much at the moment because life is a bit of a mess and I haven't been in the right frame of mind. We still haven't found a home which means we've been living out of the same bags now for three months. It's getting to be a bit not fun. There are two places we really hope to be getting this week... well one of them. One is in Collingwood, just off Smith Street, close to lots of restaurants, bars and pubs. The other is in Brunswick East, looking out over bush by Merri Creek, I think. It's really peaceful, the balcony looks into the bush and soaks up birdcall. We'll be happy with either lifestyle. There is lots of apeal in the Brunswick place and living close to ceres and getting on our bikes to get around, but equally the handy hedonism of Collingwood is appealing and fits right in with our lifestyle.

Either way, I hope to be not relying on the charity of friends for very much longer. As wonderful as they are and as appreciated as they are, we really need our own place. I just want to be able to hang my clothes up and know where everything is without having to rummage.

We left friends in Yarraville yesterday (I still find it funny to be using all these Melbourne names instead of Sydney names) and as we left Northcote, the car broke down, fully loaded with all of our stuff. The RACV (not NRMA) guy said he was baffled, and I was so glad I wasn't driving because the Error 05 thing would have been too hard to deal with. We had the car towed around the corner to a mechanic, then we went to a favourite bar called Kelvin's where we sat in front of the fire, drank wine and waited for another friend to pick us up. As far as breakdowns go, this was a good one, especially given that were had driven to Braidwood for a dance festival the week before. The car could have died in the middle of nowhere but was considerate enough to wait until we were in civilisation.

And so here e are in West Heidelberg... quite strange. This is really not our kind of place. I appreciate the hell out of the fact that our friend picked us up and that we have a place to stay, but it's such a strange suburb. For one thing, it really is The Burbs. For another thing, no one seems to care about their home. It's like everyone just thinks, "Narp - can't be arsed." We even went to Northland shopping centre and it was the same. It's like it has a dress code that says "Anyone entering Northland must look like they just got out of bed."

It's a weird part of the world. Mind you, so are Collingwood and Brunswick. But at least that's good weird. I need some good weird, and soon. Cross your fingers and say chookas for us that we get one of these places in the next couple of days.

Oh yeah - and filling out those fucking rental application forms... nothing is straightforward with me. Nothing about me fits neatly into any category. It's so frustrating. I didn't have a job for the first couple of applications (I have a part time one now), my next of kin situation is not normal (I've been writing down my cuff buddy Christine as the person to notify in case of emergency... man, after last weekend I miss her so much), I have no regular income, we don't have a current address... I just feel like chaos personified.

I am a loose cannon.

Anyway. The Dreaded One is outside now doing gardening things with the people we are staying with. The garden is a big project. And although I don't like gardening (for a start - what does one wear when gardening?) I should go out there and chip in. All I want to do (now that I've started) is keep writing. I want to write about last weekend at Regrowth with so many wonderful friends. I want to write about how i had very strong feelings about my Sydney friends and wondered when we move cities, what are we really leaving? The city or the friends?

I have a friend who likes to hold my hand when we are together. Over time, I had forgotten how much I enjoy her company. There are so few people we bump into that we have that instant connection with. I love this human. But distance and time separates and we do forget. Time wears down the brilliance of these wonderful and important chance encounters with strangers who become friends.

It's life and it's how it goes, but it's really, really nice to be reminded. I hung out with Christine for the weekend (along with so many other cool friends), and it reminded me not only of how lucky I am to have her in my life, but how lucky I am to have all the others in my life as well.

I am very lucky indeed. And if you have good friends in your life, so are you. Remember your friends.

And now, I should go out and help my friend with this gardening stuff, whatever that is.

Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale At The Sydney Opera House

Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale

By Lee Bemrose

Not very long ago, British comedian Sanderson Jones had a dream of performing at the iconic Sydney Opera House. He was relatively unknown at the time and came up with the idea of selling tickets to his show by hand, in doing so getting to know his audience personally. His show, Comedy Sale, has been successful in the UK and now in Australia, most recently with a sell-out gig at The Melbourne Comedy Festival, along with a string of weekly appearances.

And now he is indeed about to perform at The Sydney Opera House. Meantime, he's hitting the streets of Sydney, selling tickets and getting to know his audience. But don't expect to find tickets to this unusual (and very funny) show in the usual places; track him down on Facebook, follow him on Twitter or log onto comedysale.com

Sales can be a tough job, yet you choose to personally sell tickets to your show... why, Sanderson, why?

It was technique born out of necessity. I wasn’t famous, had no buzz and needed to get people in my show. Then I discovered two things: 1) Doing a show to people you’ve met before produces a uniquely convivial atmosphere. 2) I was really good at selling tickets. Two years later I’m getting ready to play the Sydney Opera House. It is weird.

For the uninitiated, give us a quick rundown of the nature of your show.

I sell every ticket to my show by hand. That way I get to meet everyone and customise the show to the crowd. In order to customise it I go online, find out funny things about my guests and weave it into the show. Long forgotten Bebo pages are a bloody goldmine.

What's the ratio of sales of people who approach you to cold calling?

About 80/20. Though I wish more people just came up to me. One woman did that yesterday. It was aces. Her name was Shannon and I’d bumped into her in Adelaide, then Melbourne and finally they can come. That is awesome.

Do you have a spiel or technique when you approach strangers in the street to sell tickets to them?

Yes, I do. I have a very well honed script that ascertains whether they’re free, makes me sound great and convinces them to hand over their money on the street.

How do you pick your targets?

People who like Venn diagrams have a certain look about them. Those are my guys. Oh, and if I see someone in a science t-shirt, they’re mine.

Have you ever had any odd or awkward encounters selling your tickets?

Rarely. It generally involves one drunken tool going “Jesus! Jesus! You look like Jesus. Can I touch your beard?”

Any violent encounters?

No. Whenever I realise someone is an idiot I walk away with my flyer, and then they can’t get a ticket. My audience has precisely zero dickheads.

Any romantic encounters?

I met my girlfriend when I gave her a flyer on the street.

At the time of writing these questions I think you had sold more than 100 tickets for your Opera House gig. Do you start the internet-stalking phase of the operation immediately or just focus on the sales part until you've sold out?

As I write this I have another word document open with people’s names, websites and other internet tidbits written down. The information gathering has begun.

It must be fun searching people on the internet and on Facebook. Some might suggest that Comedy Sale is just a way of legitimising an otherwise slightly suspect activity. Your thoughts?

As one of the world’s few professional Facebook stalkers I wholeheartedly encourage the pursuit. Like photos of potential dates from years ago, befriend people you hate just troll their news feed and, of course, look at profiles of your exes as often as possible.

Is there any audience participation in the show? Have you ever managed to get someone up on stage when they really, really, really, really didn't want to go up on stage?

The person who least wanted to go up on stage, Lee, was you and, eventually, through the power of mass peer pressure you got on stage and you ended up throwing a cream pie in my face. I reckon we ended one all. That Melbourne show had the most people on stage because it was proper old theatre and had lots of room for dicking about. The elf in a lion costume fellating the woodsman, being serenaded by a Belgian beatboxer with Jazz trumpet accompaniment, while a deer hopped in the background was a highlight.

You are obviously a people person. Tell us about the get-togethers you arrange outside of your shows.

The whole point of these shows is to try to create truly one off experiences. So I try to do everything possible to make that happen. On Sunday September 23^rd I’m having an afternoon of barefoot bowls at the Petersham Bowls Club so the audience can get to know each other. I want them to be as excited about the show as I am.

How do you feel about performing at The Sydney Opera House?

It’s unbelievable. I started selling tickets by hand just as a way of getting people into my show. I had no idea I would end up on the grandest stage of all.

I noticed on your website your bit of Melbourne bashing when you moved to Sydney, an obvious attempt to garner goodwill in your new host city. Not that us Melburnians care at all in bashing that superficial, shiny bauble of a city with its inflated prices, its wankiness, its egostistic inhabitants preening themselves on their beaches so that they're the best looking shark food money can buy... with its vacuum of creativity and its nauseating air of too-busy-on-the-treadmill-to-give-you-the-time-of-day-ness... erm... how have you found Sydney so far?

Of all my time in Australia I have spent 95% of it in Melbourne. I love cafes, men with beards and girls with tattoos. I expected to hate Sydney and Sydneysiders, and that hasn’t really happened. I’ve been blown away by the harbour, the Opera House and the weather.

Finish this sentence: Come to Sanderson Jones' Comedy Sale gig at The Sydney Opera house...

Because it will be the greatest show in the history of matter.

Kiss Them All Soundly, The Owl And The Pussycat, Review

KISS THEM ALL SOUNDLY

Lee Bemrose

It's Likely that it has been a while since you've heard nursery rhymes such as Simple Simon, Georgie Porgie and Mary Had A Little Lamb, although you probably still know at least some of the words. It's also quite likely that you've never given these rhymes any thought.

Apparently inspired by his own mother's slight modification of The Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe – changing the line about her whipping her children and putting them to bed to “Kissed them all soundly and sent them to bed” - Jason Cavanagh gave these rhymes quite a bit of thought. Specifically, he wondered what made Simon simple; how did Georgie Porgie make the girls cry; and what, exactly, happened to Mary's lamb?

The result is this darkly comical re-imagining of these already quite strange vignettes from childhood. They have been brought into the modern world, their whimsy replaced with an unsettling reality. Where the originals have an inevitability about them, a feeling of simply being, Cavanagh has pulled them apart to explore the possibilities, and suddenly things are not what they seem.

Four actors (Susannah Frith, Adam Willson, Peter Rowley and Brooke Smith-Harris) play out the three separate stories with the first three taking on dual roles, Peter Rowley doing a particularly good job. His switch between damaged and potentially dangerous George and the patient healthcare worker Martin was instant and complete each time. Adam Willson also did a good job of changing between Simon and Mary's long-suffering husband James in the Mary's Lamb story, this latter one acted out hamily like a 60's sitcom... it isn't clear why this was done and I couldn't decide if it was jarring next to the others or effective. Perhaps it was a reflection of 50s and 60s middle class America and the culture of smiling and pretending everything is just fine, no matter what. It was amusing and certainly there was something off-kilter about it, and in that respect it fitted in with the things-aren't-quite right feel that hung over the whole play. Susannah Frith seemed to relish the sit-com part of her two roles and Brooke Smith Harris as schoolgirl Alice did a wonderful job of being at once street-wise, compassionate and vulnerable.

The unfolding drama of each of the stories sustained suspense throughout the almost hour and a half. Once you settle into the extreme cosiness of The Owl & The Pussycat theatre and get the hang of what's going on on that tiny stage, your curiosity is piqued. You know things aren't right and you want to know what is going to happen. The ending is inventive, a little haunting and yet leaves you with a sad smile on your face. Well worth seeing no matter how cold and rainy it is outside.

On at The Owl & The Pussycat Theatre, Richmond, until September 22^nd.

Grumpy On The Amalfi Coast

Hmm. Not sure what happened but this column went missing in action. It was supposed to be up on the mag's website weeks ago. I was just tweaking my resume to send it off and suddenly remembered I had written this but not seen it. Funny little brain with its random way of thinking. Anyway, better late than never. Enjoy. I'm back to rubbing my face in the fact that I have not had a very sensible work life, and that it's nearly impossible to get any paid work as a writer. Oh joy.


GRUMPY

With the magic of the internet it is possible to keep working while you are travelling. I go a bit stir crazy if I don’t write for a few days, so it’s brilliant to be able to sit here like I am now on my hotel balcony with a view of Mount Vesuvius across the Bay of Napoli and write this column. That's not what the photo is; that's me on the Amalfi Coast.

Last week, however, I got an email invitation to attend a theatre opening night for review. Unfortunately, the opening night was in Australia. My reply to the invitation was “I would love to come along but unfortunately (wrong word entirely) I am on the Amalfi Coast.”

I just fired it off without thinking. Then I sat back and said it out loud. How often in my life, I wondered, am I going to get the chance to say that? I can’t make it because I am on the Amalfi Coast. Possibly never again. Hmm.

I logged into Facebook where a few invitations to club nights were left idle. I had intended to just ignore them but decided to post replies now. “Sounds like a great night but I won’t be able to make it because I am on the Amalfi Coast.”

A friend was having a birthday drinks get together so I told them that I would love to come but I am on the Amalfi Coast.

Another friend was online, so I started a conversation.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Grumpy. How’s the trip going?”

“Good, good. What are you up to this weekend?”

“Not much. Having the gang over for dinner tomorrow night, other than that, having a quiet one.”

“Dinner? That sounds lovely. You know, I’d love to join you but I’m on the Amalfi Coast.”

My friend went quiet for a while, so I said, “The Italian one.”

“What?”

“The one in Italy.”

“Sorry - got a few conversations going. The Italian what?”

“The Italian Amalfi Coast. I’m on it, and that’s why I can’t make it to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I didn’t invite you because I know you’re away. Been following your adventures on FB. Why are you banging on about the Amalfi Coast?”

“Because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.”

The friend must have had a bad connection because they dropped out shortly after that.

I emailed friends at random to announce that if they had any parties/marriages/anniversaries/funerals etc, I couldn’t make it because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.

I wondered if I shouldn’t have been doing this two weeks ago when I was in Santorini.

“I can’t make it because I am in Santorini,” I said out loud.

The Dreaded One looked up from her book. “What did you just say?”

“I said I can’t make it because I’m in Santorini.”

“Why did you say you can’t make it because you’re in Santorini?”

“Because I wondered if it sounded better than I can’t make it because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.”

“What are you actually doing? I thought you were supposed to be writing your Grumpy column.”

“I am. Kind of. I just need to tell one or two people that I can’t make it to one or two things because I’m on the Amalfi Coast. It would be rude to simply not respond to an invitation.”

The Dreaded One’s gaze lingered for several long moments, as though she suspected me of being up to something rating extremely highly on The Stupidometer.

I got back to work. I got in touch with long lost relatives, old school friends, even one or two friends I’d had fallings out with, just to say we should forgive and forget and we should catch up for drinks sometime soon - just not right now because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.

Finally done, when I didn’t think there was another living soul who needed to know that I couldn’t make it because I’m on the Amalfi Coast, I decided to indulge in a long, lathery shave before getting ready to go out for dinner. I was feeling pretty good about this Amalfi Coast business. I felt like a pretty smooth mofo. Yeah baby, can’t make it to the thing because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.

Then I reached for the bidet towel to dry my face.

Oh yeah, I’m one smooth mofo.

Grumpy is freelance writer and smooth mofo Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). If he can’t make it to your thing, it’s probably because he’s on the Amalfi Coast.

50 Shades Of Portugal.

Hello again. In Barcelona now and loving it. Saw the Sagrada Familia again today after 12 years. Amazing changes. We missed it last time we were in Barcelona and I'm kind of glad because the differences would not have been so drastic. It really is the most beautiful building I've ever been in. I love the place. Took about a hundred photos of it. Fucking amazing.

Anyway, can't stop and chat right now. So much to do here. So much we still haven't seen. And we have to slot in a few lunches and a day or two on the beach. And see stuff.

Here are some photos from our post-Boom fest road trip through Portugal with our friends Annye and Danny. Lots of them, but soon I'll be up to date with our last week of the trip in beloved Barcelona. Did I mention that I love Barcelona? Because I love Barcelona.

And yeah, that's a picture of me reading the appalling 50 Shades Of Grey. Morbid curiosity carried me through 320 pages of this badly written sludge and I had to put it down. I wish I could have put it down in a dying-horse sense.

More soon.

Boom 2012

Hello. Having a great time. The Dreaded One and I are in Madrid for one last night before catching the Very Expensive Train to Barcelona tomorrow. We had intended to catch the bus but weird shit happened so we're getting the fast train. We'll be in our spiritual hometown tomorrow early afternoon, 3pmish.

Lots to write. Really. So much stuff I need to get down. And so many photos still to upload. Here are a few of them from our first few days in Madrid and our week of partying at Boom. Many more to come.

Still Alive

Still alive. Somewhere on the coast of Portugal. Drifting. Chilling. Back in Spain sometime next week, reluctantly making mt way to our final week in Barcelona at the end of the month. Hundreds of photos to be uploaded. Back with more as soon as I can.

Ciao.

Postcard From Atrani, Amalfi Coast, Italy

Getting a bit behind here, but we're actually on the Amalfi Coast, Italy. Specifically a little town called Atrani. Since the last post we've been to Corfu and Naples, or Napoli. The shot above is one of our Group Shot series, this one being Group Shot With Mt Vesuvius. We're in Pompeii in the pic, which was pretty damned amazing. Napoli was less amazing, but unfortunately we have to go back there for at least a day to fly out to Madrid next week... not the least because The Dreaded One left her phone there.

There is so much to write about that I feel I'm drowning in unwritten... erm... writing. I want to write reviews of hotels and restaurants we've been to - this hotel we're in now, Hotel L'Argine Fiorito is going to be such a fun review... they have the weirdest rules and are quite Nazi about them... and it was a fucker to get to. Wasn't a good feeling finally making it here to find no fridge, The Dreaded One had left her phone and the adaptor for the lappy in Napoli (say that three times quickly) and there appeared to be no internet connection anyway. All good though. Bought an adaptor, we can have a fridge for a small fee and the internet connection is fine if we move the desk and chair out onto the balcony... it's actually pretty damned nice writing out here beneath these massive cliffs with a stunning view and to the sound of birdsong, church bells and waterfall. Pictures of the Amalfi Coast will no doubt be posted when we're in Madrid, or maybe towards the end of our week on the coast. It's a bit stunning here.

Today is a designated Lazy Day. It really was a trek getting here. So many people, the usual language problems, a bus ride on the edge of a cliff, cab drivers who are clueless about the true delicate art of ripping off tourists... God, so many details that I'm worried that I'm going to forget, and I have Grumpy columns to write. Think we're going to visit a very cool looking grotto today then laze on the beach, and I'm going to make loads of notes, reminders for when I have time to write properly. We've also got some serious walking to do (it's famous for its walking tracks here), a day trip to The Isle Of Capri, and of course some serious lunching.

For photos of Corfu, click here. 

For photos of Naples and Pompeii, click here.  (And make sure you click on the first photo and use the arrows to go through the photos because I've captioned most of them and you might get a smile out of some of them).There are more of Pompeii than Naples because Naples didn't really inspire us. Kind of cool in that any big city is kind of cool, but it felt quiet on the weekend for such a big city, and it's possible that we just didn't find the cool bits, no matter how lost we got or how much we walked. We even went to the most legendary pizzeria in Napoli - Da Michelle, and quite frankly it was disappointing. It's really old and Julia Roberts ate there (it might have been written about in Eat, Prey, Love), but the pizza was okay, the experience ordinary. Massive queue to get in - well over an hour - two choices of pizza, beer only and not bottles of wine because they want you out of there as soon as possible to herd fresh cattle in. Anyway, ticked off the list, will write a detailed review for Tripadvisor as soon as I can.

For now, got to get out there in the amazing Amalfi sunshine. The town of Amalfi itself is a 15 or 20 minute walk along the coast, so going to head in and see about Grotta dello Smeraldo, or The Emerald Grotto.

Hopefully later I can come back and do links to these places. Just don't got no time.

Update - here are the first batch of photos from the Amalfi Coast. Capri tomorrow, I'm sure there will be more photos.

Postcard From Santorini

Yes, Santorini really is this beautiful. I took a shot of an old boat on a rooftop, and this yacht was a speck in the background. A few steps along I took another rooftop shot still with this speck in the background. Then I zoomed in a bit to make the yacht the focus of the photo. Think it turned out quite nicely. Check out more Santorini photos here.

Gotta make this quick because it's yet another stunning day out there. Ranty first draft and I'm not checking it so ignore any typos, will fix them later. But. Santorini is gorgeous and I want to stay here longer. Yesterday we took a boat to an active volcano (Nea Kameni). Never been to a volcano before and it was, well, very volcanoey. There was even a weird hole in one part at the walking path where steam was coming out and I couldn't decided whether it was volcano steam or they just rigged up a pipe attached to a tank and they turned it on for the benefit of the tourists.

Kidding. It really is an active volcano. Apparently when it went off 3,600 years ago it was 40 times greater than Krakatoa. And here we were climbing on the bloody thing AND swimming in hot springs at its base. Everyone looked at me kinda weird when I started telling them, "Guys - do you know why the water is hot? Do you know what's happening right under our feet? Don't you think we should be running for our lives?"

Main thing that has stayed with me about that tour was the tour guide, Zoe, or Mama Zoe, as she called herself, and the way she railroaded the whole boatload of us into a taverna that had clearly paid her or was somehow related to the boat company. I know that's what these tours do and it's one of the reasons I don't like them, but they serve a purpose when you're on limited time. Thing is I had read somewhere about the taverna, Captain John on the island of Thirassia, so I thought it probably was the one to go to. In hindsight, we really should have done what we usually do and explored  for ourselves.

You have to walk through the first taverna to get to Captian John, and the little guy there was doing his damndest to get people to stay in his place. But Mama Zoe had drummed it into everyone that the best place was Captain John. She explained time and time again that you have to keep walking through the first one to get to Captain John. She even told us that the first taverna had been serving the same octopus for a week, basically implying that it was a health hazard to eat there.

Is this not slander? His food looked as fresh as the food in Captain John. I felt for the guy but it all happened quickly and was too late. Captain John was twice the size of his place and it filled as tour boat after tour boat arrived, and his stayed empty. Not only that, there were other tavernas further along, as we would later find, that were clearly getting very little business. Two of them were Kamapa and taverna Tonia. Again, they were meticulously clean in front of house with open kitchens that appeared to be spotless, the food looked fresh, but no one made it past Captain John. We stopped in for a glass of wine in one of them and that's when it properly sunk in. Whoever owns Captain John probably paid for a mention in whatever guide I had read about it in and there is clearly something going on with the tour boat company and Captain John - and the thing is, the food there was as nice but ordinary as anywhere else in Greece. Greek food is the same everywhere for Godsake. It's just grilled seafood or meat, Greek salad, tzatziki, moussaka etc (although they do some really nice tomato fritters here that I haven't experienced before).

The reason I got so angry about all of this is that some restaurant down the stretch had already been abandoned. There was a small market stretch from the boat that ended at Captain John, and these other little places are run by locals who are clearly suffering. It's their fucking livelihood and because of shrewd business dealings and greed, Captain Fucking John is choking them. Soon they will go under and there will be nothing there but Captain John. How short-sighted. What the hell is wrong with people. Why can't they see that it's a community that needs to work together. It's a gorgeous part of the world and it could really be something special if all the tavernas did well and the market stretched all the way along the waterfront... but no, Ship's Joint Venture and Captain John are screwing the place.

End rant. This is largely for me to try to follow up and write in detail about after doing some research.

After this (and it was a lovely day otherwise), we went to Ia and rode donkeys up the hundreds of steps to one of the prettiest towns I have ever been in. Had some wine, stared in wonder at that magnificent panorama for ages until we caught the local bus home to Fera Stefani and our gorgeous little hotel Reverie with its own stunning panorama. Totally recommend this hotel. Reasonable rates, very clean and run by really friendly family members. Love it. Check the photos link to see it for yourself.

Right then. That's probably all from here until we get to Corfu tomorrow.

Postcard From Athens

Hello from Athens. What a trek it was getting here. Our flight from Singapore to Athens had been cancelled so we had to go from Singapore to Zurich and then on to Athens. I think we were in transit for well over 30 hours. Grumpy? Hell yeah.

Anyway, made it with no dramas. Have a little hotel room with a view of The Acropolis and there's a rooftop bar with a jacuzzi in the deck also with a view of The Acropolis, which looks especially pretty at night when they light it up.

We've spent the last two days seeing things like The Acropolis, the Acropolis museum, The Temple Of Zeus, the original Olympic Stadium (perhaps my favourite old thing so far), as well as getting lost... these old cities and their bendy roads... what were the ancients thinking? I was reassured to see many other tourists standing on street corners turning their maps at various angles, waving their arms in all directions and enjoying intense discussions.

We've walked lots and learned lots. The history of The Acropolis is amazing and in the museum there was a video that in one part showed the complete history in a short time and it's really powerful and sad to see what a great building/set of buildings/monument it was treated with such contempt in relatively modern times. I kinda wish Goddess Athena would come down and smite everyone who played a roll in its destruction. But that's humans, innit; destructive bunch that we are.

The Panathinaikon Stadium was great. You get to go into the stadium, onto the track, into the seats and into the tunnel where all the athletes came onto the track, and the gladiators before them. That bit was totally cool because the tunnel is an old, old cave used for pagan rituals, in particular, the local chicks nuding up and dancing about a fire to bring their perfect partner into their lives. A very cool place indeed and very cool to have been inside.

And naturally we've been eating well. I wasn't sure what to expect from Athens and guess I didn't have high expectations. We only booked three nights because many people said that was all you need, but many people were wrong. There are day tours we could have done as well as all the other stuff to see in the city, as well as just hanging out and enjoying the place. We're staying in Plaka district which is a mixture of tacky tourism and sophistication, and we also wandered down to Psiri which is where a lot of the locals seem to go to hang out in the many eateries, and both were really pleasant experiences.

I know Greece is in the shit economically, but you wouldn't know it looking around. Well maybe looking around at some of the buildings that have fallen into a state of disrepair (not just The Acropolis), but it also feels like a vibrant, bustling city that knows how to enjoy itself. It has passed expectations and we could easily stay longer.

For now, though, we have one final night before catching a 7am fast ferry to Santorini, which means getting up at about 5am. Not that time means a hell of a lot after all those time zones and lack of sleep getting here.

Funny shit has happened, so there will be funny stories coming up. But that's all for now.

Lots of love, Grumpy & The Dreaded One.

PS, check out the first trip photos here.

Grumpy With Travel Luggage

                                                        

The Dreaded One and I are lucky enough to be heading overseas again. We dusted off our luggage recently and while she looked fondly upon her trusty steed, I instinctively lashed out and kicked the living shit out of mine, screaming hateful insults at it.

“Grumpy – what are you doing?”

“Sorry Dreaded One,” I panted from my exertions, wiping sweat and spittle from my face... and giving that son-of-a-bitch suitcase one last, heartfelt kick. “I think it's like when war vets have flashbacks. I just had a flashback.”

“It's a suitcase. You put clothes in it to go travelling. How can you compare that to a war flashback?”

“You weren't there,” I say as I massage the trauma from my forehead... attempt to massage the trauma from my... attempt to ease the trauma inside my head by massaging my forehead. “You didn't see the horror... the horror...”

“You are not Marlon Brando and I was there. You just chose poorly, that's all.”

Her words become echoey and my world goes wavy like some b-grade special effect indicating a shift back in time...in time... time... time...

It all started out pleasantly enough. After The Twisted Back Incident in Turkey, 2006 in which I had hoisted my back-pack onto my shoulders in such a swashbuckling manner and, well, twisted my spine into the source of the universe's most excruciating pain, I decided that I'd try one of those bags-on-wheels. Dragging, surely, must be less painful than hoisting-and-lugging.

My big mistake was in choosing a narrow wheel base model. Everything else about this bag was well made. Solid stitching. Handles made for heaving. Sturdy in every way.

Until you walked for more than 20 steps. Inside the shop when test driving, you could only go five steps. So you didn't get the death wobble effect that kicked in around 15 steps which got worse and worse until the bag keeled over on its side around the 20 step mark. On European streets. Every. Fucking. Time.

In Arles, Southern France, brief home of Van Gogh and his fleeting friend Gaugin. Two of the greatest artists of our times. In one year Van Gogh painted more than 300 paintings, such was the inspiration of this city with its ancient Roman ruins. But what is my burning image of this place? The combination of The Dreaded One's Nav Bitch sending us on a wild goose chase while my suitcase tipped over for the … oh I don't know... the squillionth time?

While bucolic French types with their baguettes tucked under their arm stopped to watch in Gallic bemusement, I lost it. I vented spleen. I raged. Seethingly, I bemoaned that we were not in America, because in God Bless America one of these bemused bystanders would at least be carrying a Smith & Goddamn mother fucking Wesson instead of a loaf of bread, and I could finally end this thing once and for all you Goddamn falling-over piece of shit luggage!

And it shames me to admit that as no Smith & Wesson was forthcoming, yes, I bludgeoned my luggage with a stolen baguette... baguette... baguette...

Echo and wobbly visuals and I was back in the here and now with The Dreaded One. Her with her expensive, well-chosen wheely bag with its wide wheel base and lack of death wobbles.

“So you will choose wisely this time?” she asks as I come back from my journey into the past. Arles... it had been the last in a long string of similar events. She had paid good money upfront. Time and time again I had thought how can you go wrong with cheap stuff made in China? Only to be now regretting the small mountain of discarded shit luggage I had contributed to. Death wobbles. Crap handles that fall apart at the touch. Wheels that fall of if you so much as frown at them. Never will I buy luggage made in China again.

“Yes,” I nod solemnly. “My back pack. Now there's some sturdy luggage.”

“The one that wrecked your back in Turkey? Oh. Oh good.”

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer and luggage basher. If you want him to write something for you he might just put down the baguette and take up his keyboard. He's at leebemrose666@gmail.com

Counting Down... Leaving In 7 Days

Here is my new Grumpy column logo wotsit. I think it's better than the old one. The old one was chosen by the mag and while funny initially, I don't think it really captured the spirit of Grumpy. This one comes closer. Grumpy the character is not actually grumpy. He's just a bit... he's a bit like he is in this picture, which was taken by The Dreaded One at Maitreya 2012. He's a bit... baffled by life. Baffled by his own ineptitude. He's a bit head-shakingly amused by absolutely everything. The original was funny enough, taken as it was just as a dubstep set started, but I really like what the designers have done to it.

So. Anyway.


I have left my current job and The Dreaded One and I are officially less than a week away from leaving the country on another adventure. Our home is now filled with boxes of our stuff, which will be put into other boxes in a storage place by men who specialise in moving boxes. This move will be much easier than the the previous move. This time, we are moving just down the road to East Brunswick. We have nothing lined up but like the suburb. Stuff will fall into place. I was very touched when I left this last place of work. Sweet things were said, sweet thoughts were shared. I bumped into some lovely people who I'd be happy to bump into again.

 Meantime, first stop Athens. Ferry to Santorini, which I keep hearing from people who have been there is possibly the most beautiful place on Earth. Then heading across to Corfu, Italy, heading into somewhat familiar territory of Spain and Portugal. Boom - a week of partying. Friends along the way. Friends at Boom and afterwards.

I know some people think I'm lucky to be doing this again. Some people who don''t know how hard The Dreaded One and I have worked might think we've had help along the way. Not so. Our luck has been our luck and our hard work has been our hard work to enjoy as we feel we should.

And there's the living-for-now outlook on life; we just think if you're going to do it, do it. So many people talk about the things they'd like to do... sometimes you just have to say fuck it and do stuff that doesn't make sense.

So fuck it - we're putting our things in boxes again and going on an adventure to see amazing things and be with wonderful friends.

Getting My Geek On

The above is soon to appear in the real world.  Having these cards printed to use for promotional purposes. They should be in my sweaty little hands this week, maybe next week. My friend The Design Assassin has put it all together and I'm pretty happy so far. Especially the QR code, that weird square pattern thing. It's a little bit of Shit That Is Amazing.

Got a smart phone? Download a barcode scanning app, then aim your camera at the square of Shit That Is Amazing and follow the prompts.

QR Codes (Quick Response Codes) are already out there and have been for a few years now, but it's new to me and therefore the newest, coolest thing ever. I love that it was a barcode invented by Toyota for factory purposes, but someone realised that with smart phone technology they would be perfect for marketting.

Shit is amazing.

Two weeks tomorrow and The Dreaded One and I take off. How do I feel about that? A bit strange... but it's strangely familiar. Only eight weeks this time but a lot of ground to cover in that time. Then back to Melbourne with no home and no job. Scary. Reckless. But living. Proper living.

Also, read my interview with Camille, who I happen to think is a gorgeous human.

Links 2012

Here is what I thought of Zoe Keating's performance at Toff In The Town.

Here is my Q & A with Zoe Keating.

And here is my book, 17 Stories Of Love & Crime.

Been busy. Countdown has begun to leaving for Europe again. Am very lucky, if a bit concerned about coming  back homeless and jobless again. Loving Melbourne, loving life, but really... it's just a little bit scary doing this sort of thing AGAIN. But it will be fine.

17 Stories Of Love & Crime by Lee Bemrose, Loose Cannon Publishing.

Well this has been an interesting process, but 17 Stories Of Love & Crime is finally up on Amazon. It's about three weeks since I got all buzzy about doing this, and it has been frustrating, challenging and rewarding. There are websites out there offering to do it for you for a fee, and I can see why. But it's so much more satisfying to do it yourself.

I'm happy that it's out there. But what do I want out of it? Hmm. It was reading the success stories that motivated me, but it was as much about the fact that you can do it yourself as it was about the hope of becoming one of those success stories. Naturally I would like it to take off, but ultimately I'm happy enough to finally have a collection of stories together and available to share with others. I've enjoyed putting these stories together, even if they have been written over many years. Each is individual and written without the others in mind, yet when I compiled them I recognised something in each of them in the others. And in compiling them I have kept the others in mind and there are fleeting references to each other throughout, characters or situations in one story referred to in other stories.

And for me, it's strangely autobiographical. Usually a single thing happens that sparks a story, and re-reading these stories I remember so much about that single thing and the time in my life that it happened. The passing of The Dreaded One's father was largely responsible for Remembering Argos, though of course there are many moments within that story. The passing of my grandmother made me think about the home I usually dream about when I dream about home, even if my own fleeting passing and subsequent rescuing is at the core of Blue Angeline. A troubled conversation with a beautiful former friend on a sunny day in the park was the spark for Ruben Jane, even if Ruben Jane's troubles are more personal. That one also came from my urge to write the darkest love story that I could.

In a way, all these stories are very real, or have some foundation in reality. They didn't happen, but in a way, they did. At a wedding when the wind was blowing and I couldn't hear the ceremony, my mind wandered and I thought up The Best Man. The woman who twists her ankle getting out of the car in Finding Davey, that was a real moment, as was the final scene in One Moment. The crane in The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story really did fall and crush that hotel, narrowly missing a group of us drinking out the back. The funniest man himself came about because of how sad I felt watching Spike Milligan doing something naff before a group of reporters and seeing them falling about in sucking-up laughter. Being Groover Terminator all happened, and none of it happened. I wrote that one as a series, painting the character (me) into a corner each week... a guy really did think I was DJ Groove Terminator, my hairdresser Jasmine did ask me to put her in the story and she really does like tequila. We really did get stoned and go on about the biiiirrrdeeees, and Jez and Ann are in there. And GT's manager did phone up and ask if they could post the story on GT's website, and weirdly I met GT and we bumped into each other a few times in the following years.

The bouncer in Stabulous The Clown? Real. The clown? Fucked if I know where I get some stuff from. As real as so many details and moments are in these stories, others are pure fiction, their origin baffling. Quick? His name is short for Quixotic, which is how I view the so-called war on drugs. Some of the characters in there are real. The setting was Home nighclub, the menacing bouncer there was also real. So many small moments make up these stories. The artist in Losing All Of You was a sideways glimpse of a guy on Swanston Street when I was there a couple of years ago with my friend Kat, alongside the essence of conversations real and imagined.

Turtle Bay all kind of happened... thinking about it, sometimes it's hard to remember what actually happened and what was made up. Maybe all of it happened. Maybe none of it happened. Why ask me? What do I know? I just wrote it.

And The Dreaded One, she is there throughout. If you squint, you can even see her there on the cover, which is a photo I took in Prague in 2010. I can't imagine a better cover for this book. I like its moodiness.

If people read it I hope they enjoy it. As far as hoping for any success, like I said it would be nice but mainly it was just a thing to do, a process to go through. I'm aiming to go through the same process (only more smoothly) in compiling The Book Of Grumpy, which as you'll know if you've been to this blog before, is all about the larfs.

Grumpy & The Dandy Warhols

Grumpy

Grumpy is hard-hitting journo and freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He takes his craft very, very seriously.

When I was asked if I was interested in doing an interview with The Dandy Warhols, I jumped at it because... well because I happen to like the Dandy Warhols' music quite a lot. I know Courtney Taylor-Taylor has a bit of a reputation for not exactly snuggling up and canoodling with the media. It's not like you see Courtney Taylor-Taylor and The Media wandering through sun-dappled parks, holding hands and whispering in hot breath into each others ears about how much they need each other. You don't see them sitting on beaches at sunset with Courtney's head nestled comfortably on The Media's shoulder as he murmurs lovingly, “Media – I just don't know what I'd do without you.” These are absurd images that only the mind of an absurd person would conjure.

In fact, as you are probably aware, Mr Taylor-Taylor has said that he fucking hates doing interviews and would prefer not to do any at all. Apparently when he finishes a project, such as the new dandy's album This Machine, he spends as much as half a day each day doing interviews. I don't think this would be a bad way to spend half a day if you enjoyed talking about your latest creative endeavour, and if you spent all that time facing genuinely interesting and original questions. Sadly, I don't think interesting and original is how the Dandy's frontman would describe most of the questions he has to face.

Thing is, before any interview like this, I read up big time. I like to find out as much as possible about the interviewee and what makes them tick, which topics get one-line answers and the kinds of things they really like to open up to. I want to know which questions keep coming up so that I can avoid those very questions.

I had to interview a local playwright recently and read an interview he had done the previous week. The piece sucked the proverbial dog's dangly bits because the interviewer based her whole line of questioning on the playwright's Wikipedia profile and (apparently in awe of being in contact with him) she barely mentioned the play he was pimping and just asked about his life and thoughts generally. You could almost hear the yawns in his printed answers. I put in some effort and was rewarded with answers sometimes longer than her whole piece. It was like we'd interviewed two different people.

Sometimes you can get away with a couple of uncreative questions. Sometimes you have to completely come at the thing from left field. I interviewed comedian Sam Simmons once and after seeing the Youtube clip of him having a staring competition with actor Seth Green, I challenged him to a staring competition. Over the phone? Yeah. He loved it. I loved it. My suggestion that the mag run an intro, the staring competition challenge, then a blank page... the magazine, they didn't love it so much.

With Courtney Taylor-Taylor, my in-depth profiling came to the conclusion that it was pretty well impossible to come up with the kinds of questions that were going to genuinely engage the man. And hell, he's busy and would rather cut down time spent interviewing so that he can make music.

So I came up with a multiple choice interview. I've written all the answers so he just has to spend a few minutes ticking the appropriate box. It could be a fun read, or it could fall flat on its arse.

Personally I think there is real potential for the multiple choice interview. Your thoughts?

A. That is an awesome idea, Grumpy. You should should take it to the big league like Letterman and Craig Ferguson. Interviewing Hollywood A-listers by multiple choice rocks! Wooh!

B. As a revolutionary concept it's as dumb as planking.

C. Stupid idea but if anyone can pull it if it would be you. When it comes to stupid ideas, you're the go-see guy.

Hmm. Stay tuned.